The League of the Scarlet Pimpernel eBook

I was still hugging the roast capon with one arm,
with the other I clung to him as together we walked
in the direction of the Rue des Pipots. On the
way we halted at a respectable eating-house, where
my protector gave me some money wherewith to buy a
bottle of good wine and sundry provisions and delicacies
which we carried home with us.

II

Never shall I forget the look of horror which came
in Mme. la Marquise’s eyes when she saw
me entering our miserable attic in the company of a
stranger. The last of the little bit of tallow
candle flickered in its socket. Madame threw
her emaciated arms over her child, just like some
poor hunted animal defending its young. I could
almost hear the cry of terror which died down in her
throat ere it reached her lips. But then, monsieur,
to see the light of hope gradually illuminating her
pale, wan face as the stranger took her hand and spoke
to her—­oh! so gently and so kindly—­was
a sight which filled my poor, half-broken heart with
joy.

“The little invalid must be seen by a doctor
at once,” he said, “after that only can
we think of your ultimate safety.”

Mme. la Marquise, who herself was terribly weak
and ill, burst out crying. “Would I not
have taken him to a doctor ere now?” she murmured
through her tears. “But there is no doctor
in Lyons. Those who have not been arrested as
traitors have fled from this stricken city. And
my little Jose is dying for want of medical care.”

“Your pardon, madame,” he rejoined gently,
“one of the ablest doctors in France is at present
in Lyons—–­”

“That infamous Laporte,” she broke in,
horrified. “He would snatch my sick child
from my arms and throw him to the guillotine.”

“He would save your boy from disease,”
said the stranger earnestly, “his own professional
pride or professional honour, whatever he might choose
to call it, would compel him to do that. But the
moment the doctor’s work was done, that of the
executioner would commence.”

“You see, milor,” moaned Madame in pitiable
agony, “that there is no hope for us.”

“Indeed there is,” he replied. “We
must get M. le Vicomte well first—­ after
that we shall see.”

“But you are not proposing to bring that infamous
Laporte to my child’s bedside!” she cried
in horror.

“Would you have your child die here before your
eyes,” retorted the stranger, “as he undoubtedly
will this night?”

This sounded horribly cruel, and the tone in which
it was said was commanding. There was no denying
its truth. M. le Vicomte was dying. I could
see that. For a moment or two madame remained
quite still, with her great eyes, circled with pain
and sorrow, fixed upon the stranger. He returned
her gaze steadily and kindly, and gradually that frozen
look of horror in her pale face gave place to one
of deep puzzlement, and through her bloodless lips
there came the words, faintly murmured: “Who
are you?”